


it was the nightingale

by whicorzoo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Footnotes, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, POETIC yearning, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), References to Shakespeare, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Yearning, an excessive amount of daydreaming because aziraphale is both lovesick and dramatic, can be read as, got that one from my mom lmao, likely excessive use of italics, only lightly beta-ed, please read the footnotes they're important to me and also I used the fancy link function for them, the author is an american writing british-adjacent characters please be patient with her, there's so much I'm not kidding, this fic isn't a pine forest. its a YEARNT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whicorzoo/pseuds/whicorzoo
Summary: "Aziraphale was afraid he would refuse, since they had never stayed under the same roof for anything more than miracle work in the past. Was it too forward? Certainly not; they had saved the world together. Surely that was more intimate than staying together in an old cottage secluded in the picturesque hills of the South Downs?"In which Aziraphale and Crowley visit Aziraphale's book hoarding-- excuse me, book storing cottage from the 1730's for a post-apocalypse vacation that ends up being both much more than they expected and exactly what they needed. Includes, and is nearly limited to: Shakespeare references only slightly out of context, yearning, apples, daydreaming, excessive setting descriptions, and more yearning.(not abandoned, just a weird mix of being unmotivated and a slow writer. apologies!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! fair warning, I'm a bit of a slow writer, especially because of school and life and things,,, though even if I'm slow, I've been told my writing is pretty rad, so I hope it'll be worth the wait. (also idk how subscriptions work when it comes to updating an already existing chapter but I am constantly making little edits to already-posted chapters so sorry if you end up getting all the notifications for those!! ack)  
> the title of this fic comes from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and the scene in which it appears is important to this story(but it will say no more)  
> anyways, I really hope you enjoy it! and if you catch any errors LET ME KNOW I will not be upset with you I promise!! I will thank you and give you invisible candy and also all of the love in my little 5' 2" body :))

Aziraphale loved many things. 

The argument can be made that as an angel, his entire job was to love things, and of course he did love all God’s creations in an angelic sense; however, he also loved things in a very human sense, as well. 

To start with the obvious, he loved books. He loved them, collected them, _coveted_ them in a way that was quite unbecoming of an angel. Not that what Heaven expected an angel to be mattered much to him anymore, however, considering at that point most of Heaven would rather have forgotten he even existed. Such a notion would have sent Aziraphale into despair only years ago, but now he was content to try and forget them right back. 

Secondly, he loved human comforts. He focused most of his attention on elaborate delicacies and vintage wines, but appreciated other comforts, like overstuffed furniture and layers of dapper clothing and classical music through the horn of his gramophone. He was a very comfortable angel, and a very human angel, too.

Finally, he loved Crowley. 

It should be noted that the order of things Aziraphale loved thus far is in reverse order of importance.

Aziraphale treasured every moment of the 4 months since the failed apocalypse and his and Crowley’s subsequent unsuccessful trials that he was able to love so freely. Now he no longer had to excuse his love of material possessions and mortal trivialities as blending in; he could simply _enjoy_ them, without having to justify himself. 

Well, according to his own list of things he loved, he could only use the term “free” liberally. In order to use it truthfully, he’d likely have to undo some 6000 years of mistakes then suffer the embarrassing ordeal of showing his hand, and _even then_ he wasn’t sure if they would be reciprocated(or even accepted at all). Liberally was just fine. He could still love Crowley, but not necessarily in the way he desired most.

They had their lunches, their late-night drunken debates, and their newly formed routine of daily-adjacent visits. It was really quite wonderful. Crowley would drop by the bookshop around mid-morning, fall dramatically on the sofa in the back room that was entirely his at that point, and they would spend their entire day together chatting amiably about whatever came to mind. 

By the jingle of the bell above the bookshop door, it sounded as if Aziraphale’s day was about to begin.

“Angel?” Crowley called into the quiet of the bookshop.

“Back here!” Aziraphale replied absentmindedly, still focused on the book he had absorbed himself in. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him, the thump of a fall backwards onto worn-in cushions and layers of blankets, and relished in the simple familiarity of it all.

“What have you got there, Aziraphale? Something new or something you’ve read over a thousand times?” Crowley asked, leaning his weight onto the armrest to peer over at the yellowed book in front of Aziraphale. He looked as if he might lunge for the book if Aziraphale wasn't quick enough.

“Something I’ve read over a thousand times, I’m afraid. _Romeo and Juliet_.” Aziraphale responded, protectively shifting the book closer to himself.

Crowley groaned. “You always did go in for the gloomy ones. How many copies of _Romeo and Juliet_ do you even have, anyways?”

“Somewhere in the range of ten to fifteen. I’ve been going through them all recently.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes I wonder whether or not you got this shop just to house your excessive collection of Shakespeare.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I had other places to store my books before this place. I’ve been collecting for millenia, Crowley, and the space I keep my wings in isn’t safe for the books.”

Crowley’s face shifted to humored exasperation. “Says who?”

“Me. The book expert. Remember, dear?” Aziraphale said dryly, giving him a self-satisfied grin, and Crowley leaned back with a huff, not unlike a petulant child. The shadow of a smile lingered on his features, however, and Aziraphale had to resist bursting into raucous laughter.

They took the following beat of comfortable silence as an implicit direction to begin their routine: Aziraphale turned back to _Romeo and Juliet_ , found his place, and continued to read, while Crowley fiddled about on his phone, humming or gasping occasionally in response to something he saw. It was nice, this new normal, especially with how easy the two of them drifted into it. It felt like they just _knew_ , with these kinds of things. 

A 6000 year friendship grants that kind of connection, that kind of unspoken rhythm.

About a half hour passed before Crowley spoke again, this time with his own mocking lilt. “So what kind of places did you store your books before the shop? Buried in secret chests underground? Stacked haphazardly in a dragon’s hoard of ancient knowledge?”

“Oh please, I have more respect for the books than that. I’ve had various little spots over the years-- all in suitable housing, mind you-- but the most recent was this adorable little cottage in Devil’s Dyke. I had rented it back in the 1730’s for miracle work, I believe, but it was just so lovely and quaint I couldn’t bear to part with it, so I bought it and have been using it as a storage house since.” Aziraphale hummed, recalling fond memories of the place. “I think I may still have some books over there, assuming it’s still under my name all this time1, though nothing as valuable as what I already have here.”

“I read an article about the South Downs recently. Seems like a nice place.” Crowley affirmed.

“Now that I’m thinking about it, it has been quite a while since I visited that old place.” Aziraphale paused for a second, tapping his cheek in thought. His eyes widened after a moment and a small gasp escaped him as a brilliant idea zinged through his head. “What if we make a week of staying there? Oh, it would be just lovely to see the place again. It could be like a little holiday! The very first of our 'retirement' of sorts.” _Aziraphale, you’re a genius!_

Crowley gave him a slightly startled look after his suggestion. _Aziraphale, you’re a genius?_ Before Aziraphale had time to backtrack, however, Crowley smoothed his expression over while he paused to roll the thought around in his head, pursing his lips. Aziraphale was afraid he would refuse, since they had never stayed under the same roof for anything more than miracle work in the past2. Was it too forward? Certainly not; they had saved the world together. Surely _that_ was more intimate than staying together in an old cottage secluded in the picturesque hills of the South Downs?

To move things along, Aziraphale gave him an only slightly plaintive expression. Nothing like the Paint Stain face, or the Hamlet face, or any of the practiced expressions of _please, could you do this for me my dear? I’d be ever so grateful_ that he had learned to use just _so_ , but he hoped it would be enough. He would never force Crowley into anything, but a little persuasion was natural when trying to get someone to agree with you, hmm?

Aziraphale sat anxious in the pause, and when Crowley finally voiced his acquiescence he almost started. “Alright, fine. Sounds like fun enough, and it’s not like I’ve got much to do now anyways except pester you.”

“How you spoil me, dear. When should we depart? Say, tomorrow, eleven o’clock?”

"I’ll drop by at eleven, then. I’ll bring wine.”

“I’ll bring some too, of course. After all, what would a trip to the countryside be without it?”

\-----

For the rest of the afternoon, Aziraphale had a very difficult time not grinning like a fool or laughing with glee. The books helped, but whatever distractions they provided were quickly cancelled out by the presence of the demon in his shop, having resumed his languid scrolling through whatever social media something-or-other he found most tumultuous at the moment. Sometimes he would read out the story of a recent controversy or some other hectic online discourse, and Aziraphale would have to guess if Crowley had anything to do with it. A vast majority of them the demon hadn’t even heard of until just now. 

It was already pleasant to do these simple things with Crowley in the bookshop, but getting to do them in a cottage all their own…

All _his_ own. All _Aziraphale’s_ own, he had to remind himself. But oh, wasn’t that a lovely thought? A rustic fantasy world of moving to that little cottage in the South Downs with Crowley, spending their days acting as though they had all the time in the world-- which they essentially did, as they had a different kind of immortality now. One without responsibilities, quotas, anyone at all telling them what to do. They had _all_ the time in the world, every second to themselves. Aziraphale would spend them all with Crowley, if he could. 

He let himself imagine silly things. Things like the windows half blinded not with curtains but with luxuriant hanging plants, like bookshelves lining each wall they could spare with little marble statues as paperweights, like used antique teacups settled neatly in a polished metal sink waiting for a wash. Things like a smooth, flat-screen television sat peacefully next to an old, worn out gramophone, like a single rose grown to perfection placed delicately over the cover of a new book, like silky shiny black sheets tucked underneath a puffy tartan quilt.

Things like a freshly baked apple pie, still steaming from the oven, made with apples right off the tree.

Perhaps over this trip Aziraphale could invite Crowley into a world like that-- with _him_. If not, at least he’d have the memories they'd make there, and that rustic fantasy world at heart.

The thought of that fantasy world, however, raised a sudden, alarming uncertainty to Aziraphale: he couldn’t remember how many beds there were.

He hoped there was only one.

* * *

> 1\.  It would be. Miracles from Aziraphale don’t often wear off, especially where books are concerned.
> 
> 2\.  Aside from that night after the apocalypse, but those were special circumstances. It wasn't particularly romantic either; half the time Crowley had been sleeping off all the energy he had spent during the apocalypse while Aziraphale read through his staggeringly large collection of astronomy books, and the other half was spent concocting a plan based on a 400 year old prophecy that would ideally result in the two of them being alive for lunch.


	2. Day Two Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now learned to add footnotes!! excitement!!  
> also gkajsdg this chapter is some DOUBLE the length of the last one but its fine!!! who cares abt chapter length consistency anyways!!!!!!

Aziraphale expected Crowley to be a little bit late. He may not have any loyalty to Hell anymore, but he genuinely liked irritating people, especially Aziraphale, that much was clear. It got on Aziraphale’s punctual nerves, but mostly he just found it endearing.

Crowley arrived early _._ By _thirteen minutes_.

At first Aziraphale thought the docile jingle of the bookshop’s bell was from a customer and started mentally preparing his most unwelcoming “we’re closed” speech, but he remembered he hadn’t flipped the sign to open nor unlocked the door since Crowley left sometime yesterday evening. It had likely been past midnight then; Crowley always made it easy to lose track of time.

The sound of barely muffled Queen music coming steadily closer from down the street likely would have cued Aziraphale in anyways, but he had been preoccupied with packing3. 

Once he had accurately deduced that Crowley was the only other being who would have shown up at this time, he turned and stepped out of the back room to greet him. For a second, however, Aziraphale stopped. Crowley always liked to mess with him, poke fun at him, though all with good intentions. Perhaps, with this exceptionally good mood of his, he could _turn the tables_ , as it were? 

Aziraphale knew just the thing. This would be fun.

When Aziraphale made his way into view, he stepped right up to Crowley, tartan suitcase under his arm, looked intently into Crowley’s sunglasses4, and lifted his hand to rest the back of it gently against the demon’s forehead. He feigned a softly concerned expression. 

“My dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked, letting his hand drop and stepping back only the tiniest bit.

Crowley visibly gulped and his cheeks pinked. “Wh-- what?” _Quite unusual to be on the receiving end of things, eh, Crowley?_ Aziraphale thought with glee.

“You’re acting quite strange.” Aziraphale kept the facade of worry for a few seconds more before cracking a smirk. “What with you arriving _early_ for once. Simply outrageous. You _must_ have a fever.” 

Crowley paused for a second, likely to blink, before matching Aziraphale’s devilish grin. He then began to laugh, and Aziraphale joined him, the bookshop soon ringing with the sounds of unadulterated joy. Crowley’s laugh was that one specific cackle of his that sounded like a quacking duck, and upon that realization, Aziraphale only laughed harder. 

It was a kind of innocent tomfoolery that they hadn’t been able to experience for so long. They could, now, he was so very glad for it.

When they finally managed to calm down, swiping the tears from their eyes, Aziraphale dared to ask. “Why were you early, anyways? Typically you go out of your way to inconvenience me, especially with arriving late simply to justify driving at reckless speeds.”

As he spoke, he remembered that he needed to grab a travel book. Seeing as he’d finished his ninth copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ yesterday, he figured he’d retrieve the next one-- unfortunately, however, the tenth had been placed on one of the taller shelves, just out of reach. 

His organizing was meant to make picking up books difficult on _customers_ , not on _himself_. Ridiculous. 

He got on his tippy toes, hoping to embarrass himself for a short time and get the book successfully rather than embarrass himself for longer and gain nothing. His efforts were leaning towards the latter.

“Stupid clock was out of sync. I never thought I’d say this, but maybe we should go back to sundials; the sun doesn’t mess up time. Need a hand?” Crowley reached up, and with delicate fingers, picked out the exact book Aziraphale wanted and handed it to him, like it was nothing at all. Aziraphale beamed at the demon.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley. It would have been a chore to drag the ladder all the way over just for the one book.”

Crowley’s eyebrows quirked up, not unlike that time back in Rome. Aziraphale didn’t realize at first what he had said, but the echo of a past conversation-- _“should I say thank you?” “better not.”_ \-- reminded him. He kept his features decidedly innocent. 

Crowley recovered quickly and smoothed his expression back into the coolness of before, and even behind those wretched sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell he rolled his eyes. “You can thank me by putting your stuff in the boot so we can get going already.” 

And so he did. Crowley’s luggage was much smaller than Aziraphale’s, only a black faux-leather case, while Aziraphale’s was a travel-sized suitcase stuffed with books and wine to the point it nearly didn’t close. The angel was curious as to what the demon packed; though, he needn’t have wondered long, as Crowley getting into the driver’s seat jostled the car enough for Aziraphale to hear the light clinking of glass from the demon’s bag. 

Ah, wine. They would drink well on this holiday of theirs.

Aziraphale hastily shut the cover of the boot and hurried to the passenger seat. Upon the angel’s settling in, Crowley smiled indulgently over at him for just a quick moment before shifting gears and starting them on their way to the South Downs. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was meant to catch it.

\-----

After about an hour of driving, Aziraphale had sunken deep into this strange mix of contentment and nerves. Yesterday this trip felt more fantasy than reality, but the hum of the Bentley around him and Crowley going through the motions of driving beside him made it feel all the more real. The growing certainty of it all felt almost cathartic, even before they’d arrived at the cottage, but he couldn’t help but be anxious about the whole thing. 

What if Crowley didn’t like the cottage? There was tartan everywhere, and the angel knew the demon’s distaste for the pattern all too well. 

What if Crowley found the place and the neighboring town boring, or even worse, found being there _with Aziraphale_ boring? 

What if-- what if Aziraphale got too comfortable, showed too much, or Heav-- Earth forbid, did something that betrayed the steps of their dance, and Crowley left? 

_What if Crowley left him?_

Aziraphale’s heart ached in his throat, so he swallowed it down, looking out the window to calm himself. Crowley had agreed to come on this trip with Aziraphale of his own volition, and that was already a gift and a privilege in itself, so Aziraphale would not keep him more than that. Crowley would likely need time for himself after the trip anyways, since they had spent eleven whole years in close contact for business reasons, which contrasted so jarringly with their past relationship of seeing each other perhaps every handful of decades. 

Aziraphale didn’t mind the closeness of late, but Crowley lived a fast-paced, ever-moving life. Aziraphale would not keep him only to stifle him with a shop and an angel who had barely changed in _200 years_. The demon needed to breathe, to stretch his proverbial legs, to… to go _faster_ , for himself.

The rest of the time passed quietly, but not uncomfortably, as Crowley focused(mostly) on driving and Aziraphale contemplated the yellowing trees along the roadside. The drive was supposed to take two hours but instead stretched into three-- _roads are expected to change in the span of over 250 years, Aziraphale, stop resisting Google Maps_ \-- before the crunch of the dirt-gravel road lead them through to a little brick cottage nestled amongst rows of pleasant greenery. Crowley parked on the edge of the gravel by the porch, and as the engine’s hum died Aziraphale felt the contentment win over. 

Crowley stepped out first and sped around to open the passenger door for Aziraphale before the angel could get it himself, busy as he was with the only seatbelt in the car5. The romanticism of the gesture was not lost on Aziraphale, but he figured at this point it was more of a habit for Crowley than anything.

He tried not to feel the twinge in his chest at the thought of it.

After getting out, Aziraphale looked forward to finally, finally see the cottage for the first time in some 280 years. Though 300-some-years old, it was miraculously untouched by time; the red bricks were rough but clean, the windows only slightly dusty, and the plants adorning the perimeter were all growing beautifully while not making any move to dirty or disrupt the cottage itself. It was a Georgian style house with tall, rectangular windows rimmed with stone and a simple slanted roof. The front porch was sheltered by an awning, and the porch swing underneath was just big enough for two. 

It was simple, it was quaint, and it was welcoming, and Aziraphale found himself falling in love with it all over again.

“Glad to see the plants are behaving,” was all Crowley had to say about it, but Aziraphale could tell Crowley felt at ease with the place. It was his posture, the way he stood so languidly and shuffled about with no anxious rush to him. A good start, for sure.

Aziraphale took the slightly weathered house key out of his pocket and stepped up the porch stairs to the front door. He didn’t technically need keys or a lock to keep the place secure, but the satisfaction of sliding the key into the lock, twisting his wrist, and _feeling_ more than hearing the click of the door unlocking was undeniable. The anticipation of seeing the interior again-- as well as, of course, seeing Crowley’s reaction to the interior-- made time slow almost agonisingly as he pushed the creaky door open and finally revealed it to the both of them.

Though none of the lights were on, Aziraphale had apparently left all the curtains open after he had left; present Aziraphale was glad for this, because the afternoon sun illuminated the walls and surfaces with a stunningly hazy glow and made it feel all the cozier. It felt almost like a dream, stepping into the warm space again, running his hands over the tartan throw on the couch by the fireplace, seeing the books he left still in their rightful places in the bookshelves. He could feel the beaming smile blooming on his face as he took inventory of the living room, kitchen, and dining corner. 

Crowley, on the other hand, was taking this all in with new eyes. Aziraphale expected the scoffs Crowley made in response to the tartan blanket, napkins, and towels, but otherwise didn’t know how Crowley would react. It felt almost like a gamble-- not that he thought Crowley might react harshly to anything(he hoped), but even so he felt nervous. Unwanted what if’s piped up from the back of his mind like hungry baby birds, waiting to be seen and over-thought to shreds. He tried to ignore them in favor of reminiscing on an antique tea set he had forgotten he had left here.

Thankfully, just as Aziraphale was sinking a little too deep into his own irrational anxieties, the aforementioned demon spoke. “I can see why you would’ve wanted to keep this place. Well, aside from the tartan, obviously.”

“I have said it before, and I will say it until the world _really_ ends, my dear boy: tartan is stylish.” 

“Tartan is the farthest thing from stylish and you know it.” Crowley stated, with the confidence of one who had gone through the motions of this argument quite literally hundreds of times and considered himself entirely in the right. When he continued, however, he started to flounder, “Though, um-- even with your complete and utter lack of style, the place feels like, well… yours.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that. He smiled instead.

“It’s familiar _enough_ , is what I’m saying. I will never _ever_ say in _any_ capacity that tartan is proper fashion, and I’m not starting now.” Crowley muttered angrily, averting his eyes to examine an empty vase with the same intense focus as he would if it had vowed to tell him the secrets of the universe. Aziraphale beamed.

After inspecting the first floor to have been in a perfectly untouched condition, Aziraphale and Crowley went upstairs to check the rooms on that floor. Disappointedly, Aziraphale learned that there were in fact multiple beds, and even worse, in separate _rooms_. _Oh well,_ Aziraphale internally sighed. He supposed that it was a fair enough tradeoff for Crowley’s company her at all, but that still didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to pity himself just a bit.

There was a master bedroom with a queen-sized four poster bed, and a guest room with a twin. Between the rooms was a hall bathroom, but that didn’t exactly matter to them, for obvious reasons. 

The two had entered the master bedroom, looked at the bed, and let a stiflingly uncomfortable silence blanket them as they stared. There was something intimate about this to Aziraphale, about looking at a bed like this and knowing immediately that he and Crowley both would fit quite comfortably on it, about knowing that if Crowley even _hinted_ at wanting to share it with him he would not hesitate to cry _yes_. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley fell as silent as he did because he knew and it was just as awkward for him, or if he was just following Aziraphale’s lead in the moment. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

After a beat, they both tried to start speaking at the same time. They then harshly clamped their mouths shut. Aziraphale was the first to try again.

“Ah, well, you can take this room, since you sleep much more than I.” He suggested in a near-whisper, entirely unsure of whether or not he should be speaking louder or making eye contact. Crowley hadn’t turned to face him, so he took that as a sign to keep glaring a hole into the cream and tartan sheets. 

“You sure? This is your cottage, after all, and me being a guest it seems more fitting that I stay in the _guest_ room.” Crowley mirrored his hushed tone. It made the moment’s intimacy all the more apparent.

Aziraphale turned to face him now, hoping to break the feeling in the air, “Nonsense. It only makes sense to accommodate both our needs-- well, habits, I suppose is a better word-- and I assure you, it is no sacrifice on my part to stay in the guest room, dear boy.” 

Crowley opened his mouth for a second as if to argue, but closed it surely afterwards and assented to this arrangement. 

Aziraphale had planned on settling himself into the guest room right away-- however, he remembered he had yet to check the outside of the house. It was likely in the same state of undisturbed as the rest of the house, but the angel was nothing if not thorough. 

“Crowley, I’m going to check around the back and sides of the house. I should be back in just a bit, but while I’m gone, feel free to make yourself comfortable.” Aziraphale called before heading downstairs and stepping out the kitchen’s back door. 

It was a crisp autumn afternoon with the cold just bordering on biting, and Aziraphale revelled in it. Living in the city was nice, being so close to everything, but being out here in the countryside felt like a welcome relief. The parks around London had nothing on the beauty of a changing season all around him.

Aziraphale walked around the back garden for a bit. He immersed himself back in his fantasy world and imagined Crowley out here, in the spring, shouting at the roses to make sure they grew nicely, for his angel. _His angel_. Maybe he’d even pick the prettiest ones for Aziraphale, put them in his favorite little antique vase and leave them in the kitchen, so the angel could wake up to them every morning until they wilted. Aziraphale would let them wilt; there would always be more.

 _Always_ , with Crowley by his side.

Aziraphale noticed the bench at the back of the garden, how despite the years it had gained no rust-- only coated with a thin layer of warm-toned leaves from the thick branches of the apple tree that loomed artfully above it.

The _apple_ tree.

Aziraphale chuckled to himself, remembering the last time he was here, 280 years ago. The bench had always been here, but the tree had not, and while the bench itself was lovely, it had lacked the soothing shade of a large, hearty tree beside it. Aziraphale had been snacking on an apple at the time, so he took the seeds from it and planted them, blessing them with miraculous strength. The entire time he thought of Crowley, and Eden, and how comforting it would be to have a relic, almost, of that fateful day.

Now Aziraphale imagined plucking one of those apples in the heat of August and handing it to Crowley-- and Crowley would smile at him with a look that only the Serpent and the Angel of the Eastern Gate could share, a look that told him he knew exactly what this was, its significance, its irony. Crowley would then take the apple and bite into it, that knowing smile shifting as he chewed to something so innocently tender. After a bite, a bite that once meant _everything_ , they would laugh, sit under the tree, and relish in this place. Aziraphale knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing Crowley then. 

Aziraphale watched the breeze shift some of the leaves off the empty bench and into the sky and found the taste of apples on his tongue. It tasted more bitter than it did in his daydreams.

As expected, the back garden and the bush-lined sides of the cottage were entirely as he left them, with exception to the dashes of reds, oranges, yellows and browns of the coming season. He had felt rather sad leaving the place and had been incredibly protective of it, which was likely why the preservation miracle he had placed on the property so long ago had been so effective. 

Aziraphale tried to let the colors and the birds and the crisp air distract him from his heart. It worked only so well, as the inherent feeling of safety he got from being anywhere with Crowley and the peace of the surrounding woods opened the gates for a familiar lovesick sentimentality to settle in.

Aziraphale’s love for Crowley was soaked so deep into his bones that it couldn’t be helped, not by anything. Aziraphale wouldn’t have wanted it to have been, anyways.

When Aziraphale came back inside after what was supposed to be a simple checkup turned jaunt through the ridiculous tenderness stored in his chest, he found Crowley was in the other room inspecting some of the little trinkets he kept on the mantelpiece, looking contemplative. At the click of the back door shutting, however, the demon jolted back to the present and feigned innocent inspection, to minimal success. Aziraphale couldn’t figure what he might have been thinking about that made his face go all soft around the edges, but it wasn’t as if he was just going to _ask_ , now was he?

“Outside all… untouched? As outside-y as it was when you left it?” Crowley asked Aziraphale only a tad awkwardly as the angel stepped into the living room. 

“Yes, very much _outside-y_.” Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley gave him a withering look. “It looks exactly the same as 280 years ago, save for the tree beside the bench. I had planted the seeds for it, back then, and I’m glad to see it has grown so magnificently.”

Crowley hummed in affirmation. “While you were out there, I got all my stuff upstairs sorted. I was just about to make sure you hadn’t wandered off somewhere with how long you were taking before you came back in.”

“Sorry for taking longer than expected, dear boy. I was simply--” _caught in the most wonderful dream about a sunny afternoon in summer, here with you, kissing the taste of apples off your lips,_ “--reliving the first time I was here. That, and dissuading the rabbits from tearing up the rose bushes.” 

“If those roses knew the consequences, they wouldn’t let themselves be torn up.” Crowley said lowly, his face shifting to a scowl as he glanced out the kitchen window by the door.

“Oh, do be gentle on them, Crowley, those rabbits can be quite vicious.”

“Doesn’t matter how vicious they are, I’m even worse.”

“I’m sure you are.” Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley’s scowl deeped. “Anyways, I have some reorganizing to do with my books around the house. You may go into the backyard, but if I hear you even once demeaning those poor roses over trivial things, the moment we get back to London I’m showering your plants with praise and, how did you put it, ' _un_ _dermining your authority'._ ”

Crowley groaned at the air quotations Aziraphale used, but nonetheless relented as Aziraphale ascended the stairs. 

Aziraphale would be forever grateful for how Crowley always seemed so amenable to him. He wasn’t sure if that would extend to mirroring his fantasy world out here or how far he could push, but he knew he hadn’t the courage to ask, not now. Things were _peaceful_ , and if Aziraphale could not break this stasis and Crowley seemed as though he would neither, Aziraphale would simply have to make do. 

Things were _good_. Aside from the longing packed so deep into Aziraphale’s body that sometimes he felt like he’d _burst_ with it all one day, things were _good_. 

If he told himself over and over that what he had was enough, maybe one day, it would be.

* * *

> 3\.  Or, in other words, indecision. 
> 
> 4\.  There were some days Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s face and nearly scowled at his inability to see those lovely golden eyes. Those were the days he stood closer to try and look through them, the days his hands itched and twitched to snatch them off his face, the days the words “For God’s sake, would you take those blasted sunglasses off?” rested on the very tip of his tongue, waiting to be howled with a rage that wasn't really rage, but something much deeper than that. Aziraphale never indulged himself, but whenever he could he’d always hint at his distaste for them. Crowley just thought he didn’t like sunglasses in general.
> 
> 5\.  Aziraphale had insisted that Crowley add seatbelts to the Bentley after legislation was passed to require them. Crowley had obviously refused, so in retaliation Aziraphale miracled seatbelts to his and Crowley’s seats. Crowley miracled his own away soon enough, but never did so for Aziraphale’s, and so the passenger seat remains the only seat in the car with a seatbelt.


	3. Day Two Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACK yes sorry it's been something like a month since the last update but over the last few months school has kind of been crushing me with a hydraulic press ! but its back and with a LONGER chapter so B) feast good people FEAST  
> also forgive me I don't know anything about alcohol I just did a few wiki searches,,, dkfjdkjs

Organizing books the Aziraphale way always took-- even for the master of the technique-- a lengthy amount of both time and clever absurdity. There was always a method to the madness, but the goal was to make the method as obscured with madness as possible, to the point at which it couldn’t be deciphered. The idea had first arose out of a desire to keep prospective customers at bay; it had, invariably, developed into a bit of a game, after a while.

Aziraphale was not in his bookshop and there were no customers to dissuade-- however, that didn’t mean that habits weren’t habits, and habits were hard to break, even for angels. 

In the bookshop, Aziraphale could reliably be found organizing his books either reverse-numerically by how many times the word “and” appeared, or alphabetically by the first letter of the eighteenth line on the fifth page. Not that anything about either system could feasibly be called “reliable” to anyone but Aziraphale.

Now, Aziraphale had decided on organizing the books in the cottage numerically by how many times the number seven appeared. He felt as though he could use a little luck.

As satisfied as Aziraphale was with the results of his sorting however, as always, it had taken quite a bit of time to accomplish; a quick clock check and a glance at the setting sun revealed that he had managed to occupy himself with the task for _three whole hours._

He did so have a habit of letting time get away from him, but he had a guest, for Goodness’ sake!

He hastened out of the guest room and down to the first floor to look for Crowley, but found the demon nowhere inside the cottage. He thought it strange for a second, then remembered he had a backyard. Crowley must’ve been very busy out there-- though hopefully not the kind of busy that involved needless verbal abuse to plants. He ventured through the kitchen to the back door and swung it open, finding the demon, lounging in a way only he could do comfortably, staring intently up at the apple tree. The tree looked as it had been when Aziraphale left it, though maybe a little greener and a bit more anxious. 

Crowley’s sunglasses were off. When Aziraphale shut the screen door behind him, Crowley slid them back on. Aziraphale pretended it didn't hurt.

Crowley turned to him with an amused look. “An apple tree, really?” 

Aziraphale approached him, noticing with more pleased joy than worry that the roses had begun to bloom, “If you must know, it wasn’t entirely deliberate. I had been eating an apple when I realized the bench could use some shade. Though, on reflection, it does seem a bit like a cosmic joke.” 

“Seems like something She’d do. Maybe She didn’t want you to forget about giving away that sword, and this was Her cheeky way of reminding you.” 

Aziraphale came over to sit in the sparse gap between Crowley’s feet and the armrest. Belatedly, he noticed that Crowley was no longer wearing shoes, but he supposed he did tell the demon to make himself comfortable, didn’t he? 

“She’s often ineffable like that.”

Instead of a snarky reply like Aziraphale expected, Crowley just stared wistfully up at the branches arching over him. He hummed and relaxed a bit, pressing his toes under Aziraphale’s thigh lightly, and despite not understanding why this mood had fallen over the both of them, Aziraphale relaxed into it too. 

Crowley looked enchanting in the light of the setting sun. The oranges and reds of the sky made his hair look ablaze and highlighted the captivating angles of his face with bright yellow strokes. Oh, Aziraphale had no remarkable artistic talent, but in that moment he longed to paint the beautiful creature before him, immortalize the Serpent’s perfect ease, here with him.

After a while of nothing but the sound of the autumn breeze and the chirps of the nearby birds, Aziraphale dared to speak, a question needing to be asked, “Crowley, three hours ago I had no roses in bloom, just buds. Did you, or did you not, threaten them with _mulching_ to get the end product that I am currently witnessing?”

“I would _never_. I simply… _tempted_ them into doing what I wanted.” Crowley snickered to himself. 

Aziraphale shot him a glare, but said nothing of it. He instead changed the subject to something more pressing. “It looks to be around 5:30, dear, would you like to go out to find some supper and drinks?”

Crowley nodded easily and sat up, scales and heeled bases materializing over his feet. Aziraphale, though a little startled by the revelation that Crowley never had any shoes to begin with, followed suit. When they got inside, Aziraphale pocketed his wallet(that he didn’t need), Crowley grabbed his car keys(that he also probably didn’t need), and they left the house to drive up to and wander about the village up the road.

Aziraphale was eager to see how the community had changed. He had been briefly tasked to aid the suffering in the town-- once called Seashire, now called South Staffolk-- from a flood, and although the houses had been waterlogged, they had been beautifully quaint when he had arrived. How different would it be 280 years later? He wondered if he’d recognize the descendents of any people he had helped. Likely not, but the thought of seeing the faces of the past molded into new forms of the present was comforting, in a way. 

Aziraphale had travelled all over the world to perform miracles, heal people, and soothe suffering. It was a satisfying job, but he seldom got the chance to really _learn_ a place and the people that loved it before he was shuffled along to somewhere new. He supposed it was appropriate, given it wasn’t proper to become attached to things that changed so quickly compared to his own perception of time, but that didn’t mean the detachment was always a comfort. It left him feeling homeless and hollow at times. Crowley could always ease it, but he couldn’t always be there for him, especially under their pre-apocalyptic circumstances. These feelings were likely why Aziraphale set up a bookshop rather than keeping his system of book-storing; the shop became his home when he had nowhere else. It was somewhere he could make his own, both as a method of relaxation and comfort and as a method of immortalization. 

Miracle work involved secrecy. Humans saw the light haired man around town, _perhaps a newcomer or a traveller maybe_ , but would be too distracted by sudden improvements in their lives to give his presence thought. Through the bookshop, however, at least if humans wouldn’t remember Aziraphale, they would certainly remember that strange old bookshop that stayed afloat despite never managing to sell any books.

There was a simple reassurance in being remembered. Aziraphale was immortal, so it wasn’t a reassurance that he would live on when he died. It was a reassurance that he existed as an autonomous being. He was _real_ , and he could exist beyond the oppressive hive-mind of Heaven. 

Perhaps that’s why he liked South Staffolk so much. They had been so distraught, the village folk, but welcomed Aziraphale so kindly despite it. He had felt like a member of their community barely a day into his visit. They revitalized him, gave his weary heart a rest, gave him company when he had not seen Crowley for over half a century. Most importantly, he felt _alive_ with them, alive and real and unique in all the ways that Heaven tried its best to wash away. The people there acknowledged him and liked him. They _remembered_ him.

Aziraphale was assigned to aid South Staffolk for a week. He stayed for about three. 

A worried thought suddenly occurred to Aziraphale: what if the entire atmosphere of the place had changed? What if it wasn’t as warm or as welcoming, what if the people here looked at him like people in London, like he was simply a ghost that they would entertain for a second before leaving and completely purging from their minds? Aziraphale didn’t know how he would handle that. He tried his best to ignore it. 

Aziraphale was saved from his thoughts when the stopping of the car along the side of a vaguely familiar road prompted him to blink back to reality.

It didn’t feel like a coming home, stepping out into the street, not really. The streetlights and the buildings and the pavement were just different enough that it still felt novel, being here. The misshapen bricks and oak beams of the past had been replaced with smoother cut edges and fresh paint, but at this point, the edges had long dulled and the paint chipped by time. It looked old and new to Aziraphale in a way that things sometimes look both old and new to an immortal being. 

The outlines were an echo though, and echoes were familiar, and comfortable. Aziraphale knew all about finding comfort in the familiar.

Aziraphale met Crowley on the pavement and, with a single look, decided that any direction would do. It wasn’t as if the buildings of the 1730’s would be the same in 2019, so Aziraphale wouldn’t be any better suited to guiding them through the streets as Crowley would. Thankfully though, whether through human coincidence or divine intervention, it didn’t take them very long to find a comfortable little pub called The Stuffed Boar. 

Upon entering, Aziraphale noticed the lights first-- there were incandescent warm-toned bulbs accompanied by yellowing rope lights that spoke of a humble welcoming homeyness. The walls were covered with vintage posters of various things like old movies long since declared either classic or obsolete, models for fashion styles some 70 years old, and enlarged newspaper ads for various alcoholic beverages. There was a pool table in the back right corner where a small group had already begun a game, and behind it, a green and red dartboard skewered by rusty darts. Beside the pool table was the bar, to which a young, friendly-looking bartender waved to them over the shoulders of early patrons; pressed neatly against the wall to their left were rows of cracked red faux-leather booths. 

The whole place felt warm and close. It felt like a hug. 

Aziraphale led the both of them to one of the booths nestled in the back left corner. The stronger bulbs didn’t quite illuminate the booth as it did the rest of the pub; instead, the rope lights took over, and the fairy-like glow from them was like a relief, almost, in the way they made his shoulders relax and the intimacy of the moment settle in. 

They framed Crowley’s head quite radiantly as well. The twinkling warmth of them caught the demon’s shoulder-length hair and made it look akin to the smoothest molten lava. 

Aziraphale felt the familiar itch to run his fingers through that silky hair. He resisted it, but was loathsome of having to do so. He hoped with all of his being, maybe even _prayed_ , that he would get the chance to someday.

“What’re you thinking, angel?” For a moment Aziraphale worried Crowley could tell just by looking at him how much the angel longed desperately to slide his fingers through those luscious locks6\-- perhaps braid them even, if he were ever to be granted such a privilege-- but the demon carried on, “Grease number 1, 2, or 3?”

“I’m sure their selection is more palatable than you give them credit for. And besides, even if whatever I order is half lard, I haven’t had such a meal in quite a while.” Aziraphale replied, primly setting his napkin into his lap.

“You sound like some prissy aristocrat who’s barely seen anything below a million pounds walking about town to experience ‘the life of a commoner’.” 

“Oh come now, you know what I mean.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, aiming for slightly irritated, but the smile quirking his lips up betrayed it, “Might I remind you that if anyone is responsible for my spoilage, it ought to be you. You take me to the Ritz for a casual lunch, for goodness’ sake.”

“Well--” Crowley sputtered for a second, as he is wont to do when he is losing an argument, “well you, you always-- ngk, this _face_ you-- augh, yh--!” When he couldn’t supply a counter, he leaned back into a sprawl, crossed his arms, and scowled in a way that Aziraphale knew meant _dammit, Aziraphale, stop being so clever._

Aziraphale let his smug grin blossom into full bloom. 

After a minute or two of browsing through the small menu, Aziraphale decided on a nice cheese toastie and some chips for them to share7. Crowley volunteered to place their order, and Aziraphale watched him go through the lenses of his thoroughly rose-tinted tiny spectacles. 

Crowley’s saunter was at its most liquidly serpentine; the laid-back quality of it added to the already insurmountably long list of reasons Aziraphale was grateful that the apocalypse had been averted. Their past relationship, even under the Arrangement, would never have allowed for something like this: like calming so completely around each other and trusting that they were allowed to admit defeat, like sitting across from each other in the back corner of a pub so profoundly secluded in dimness that the world became no more than their little booth, like staying together in a cozy, rustic, entirely undisturbed cottage of their own personal desires in rooms separated by barely two paces  _ for a whole week _ . This freedom, this endless freedom, and the bliss it brought were  _ everything _ .

They had finally been allowed, in a way, to retire from the institutions that had them work in the thick of the misery of humanity that had plagued them for so long. Now it was just them, the silly human joys they had come to love, and time. 

It was exceptionally nice.

As Aziraphale waited for Crowley to return, he thought on it all. He knew a great burden had been lifted from himself, that he felt happier and more free than he ever had, and he was pleased to have noticed a change in Crowley’s demeanor to match his own. He was still a sharp, witty snake, and was no less prone to irritating as many people around him as he could, but he had softened just a bit. Relaxed. He had the space to be nicer to the world, now, and to himself. 

Crowley smiled a lot more now. It was so very wonderful to see.

Crowley returned quickly enough, and Aziraphale snapped back to himself, offering a small nod of greeting upon the demon’s inelegant sprawl back into the booth. For a moment, the two of them were content to simply take in the space around them: the clinking of glass, the chatter of old friends, the muted old blues music lazily drifting out of a radio that looked like it had been ready to retire years ago but felt too guilty about it. No words needed to be said. It was certainly a nice change from the many moments of the past that had been filled with anxious chatter pulled blindly from their minds just to fill an agonizing silence. 

As Aziraphale people-watched, he got the distinct impression that he was being watched in return. He spared a short glance over in Crowley’s direction and saw the demon looking at him intently, comfortably, chin in palm, sunglasses entirely off. 

Aziraphale was stricken, and it took all of himself not to quite literally glow with happiness8. Those eyes, _those eyes_ , they _shone_ in this light with such astounding golden brilliance, shone with such a deep complexity of emotion that Aziraphale couldn’t quite place but knew felt so achingly familiar. Oh, Aziraphale had no need for it, but the sight took his breath away. He must have looked too long, though, as Crowley soon averted his eyes and sat back-- the sunglasses, curiously, stayed off.

Soon the little bell on the bar dinged and Aziraphale went to pick up their order, to which he discovered Crowley’s choice of drink: two tall glass pints of clear amber beer.

“Feeling American, are we?” Aziraphale prompted as he sat back down with their tray.

“Yeah, well. They’re a bit of a mess, but you’ve got to admit they’re pretty good at getting themselves shitfaced.” Crowley shrugged. 

“Is _that_ what you’d like to do, hmm? Get riotously drunk on the very first day of our holiday?”

“I think that’s rather the point of a holiday, right? Having fun?” Crowley arched one maroon eyebrow fetchingly. The Serpent was giving the Principality that Look, with that Tone of Voice, and the Principality knew exactly what he was doing: tempting him. 

The game of temptation had always been fun, but now even more so; Aziraphale was no longer morally obligated to resist, and therefore didn’t have to feel shame when he didn’t. Or, sometimes, when he _couldn’t_.

Aziraphale paused. It was mostly for show, but he still had some reservations. They had just arrived here, and South Staffolk was already so dear to him, so what if he made a bad impression? Then again, drinking with Crowley was always more fun than anything involving humans. So, inevitably, Aziraphale relented. “Well… I _suppose_ these lagers look quite expertly brewed…”

Crowley gave him a pleased grin. It was likely meant to be smug, to tell Aziraphale that he’d “lost” their little game, but it just made his insides melt. 

The meal, though small and humble, filled and warmed Aziraphale nicely-- though it was soon forgotten in the sea of locally-brewed Vienna-style lager that he and Crowley found themselves soon wading through. Time passed them by like a snail-- slowly and steadily while one is paying attention, but gone the moment they look away. 

It was nice not to have to pay attention to the clock when they were together. As much as Aziraphale wished to let Crowley stay for as long as he liked-- maybe even explicitly invite him to, in a way that Aziraphale hoped Crowley could tell meant _you can stay forever, should you want to_ \-- the demon couldn’t visit longer than a few hours to avoid the smell of evil lingering. Personally, Aziraphale never really minded the smell as much as his peers did, but living amongst humans likely desensitized him to that sort of thing9. They had kept the same internal timers, these months past the Apocalypse, and Aziraphale hoped this week to finally shut them off. 

In his drunken stupor, he nearly didn’t notice it-- but there it was, the smallest brush of a foot against his own. He looked to Crowley, who was still off on some tangent Aziraphale had lost track of in favor of watching his wild hand gestures, and figured that he hadn’t noticed. That tiny bit of contact sent zings up through Aziraphale’s leg, and while he almost felt like a fool for it, he didn’t feel enough like a fool to move his foot away. 

Aziraphale imagined what it would be like if he were slightly braver, if he decided to nudge his foot into Crowley’s more purposefully. Would Crowley tip his foot out of reach, thinking it an accident? Or would he stop, smile lopsidedly at him, and slide his foot over Aziraphale’s, acting like two besotted humans in one of those old neon diners from various movies Crowley had him watch, with one shake with two straws in between them, lacking the willpower to even tear their eyes away from each other--

“Hey, sorry to interrupt your date, but it’s about 15 minutes until closing, and as much as we appreciate your patronage we still need to go home for the night.” Aziraphale jumped and turned to the polite-looking bartender from earlier, chuckling awkwardly but good-naturedly. He looked a little guilty about having to kick them out, bless him, but what had he said? Something about… 

“It’s not a date.” Crowley snapped. Ah yes, that’s what it had been. 

“Sorry, my mistake. I just figured, what with…” He made an odd gesture between the two of them, “Nevermind. Anyways, you’ve already paid so I don’t have a bill to give you, I just wanted to remind you.” The moment he could, he bustled off to talk to the few other patrons still in the pub, an anxious haste to the shuffle of his feet.

Aziraphale looked around for a clock and saw an old, yellowed one across the room that read a quarter to midnight. They had arrived here sometime around 6pm. 

Goodness, the time really had passed them by, hadn’t it? By the way Crowley’s blinks seemed labored and his face twisted in slight bewilderment, the demon was likely thinking the same thing. They faced each other for just a quick second before Crowley turned his head back to the pub, slithered up to a surprisingly stable stance, and propped those opaque shades back on his nose. Endearingly, they were just a bit crooked. 

Aziraphale nodded to himself and followed Crowley’s saunter out of the pub. Thank goodness for that miraculously near-sentient car; neither of them were in any state to drive and they didn’t seem to want to do anything about it either. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. Sobriety made it easier for Aziraphale to overthink things. Now his mind felt a little like molasses, and to think he had to wade through it. The molasses was quickly souring, however, with every echo of what Crowley had said.

_It’s not a date._

Technically, Aziraphale supposed, Crowley had been right. It hadn’t been a date, or at least not one he had been aware of. 

It was the way in which the demon had stated it that had stung. He said it-- no, he _spat_ it out, like something disgusting, like something _wretched_. Like the mere thought of any romantic implications behind anything he and Aziraphale did was offensive to his very being. The usual twinge of Aziraphale’s chest was gone, replaced by a horribly yawning soreness in his lungs.

He knew Crowley liked him. He knew the demon appreciated their outings, their banter, the hours spent in each other’s company. He knew that. He was fine with being wanted that way, but to hear that the mere suggestion of rose-colored love between them cut down immediately, to see with his own eyes how it angered the demon like someone had said something truly loathsome to him? 

In the car, the silence was deafening. Everything felt heavy to Aziraphale-- the air, his feet, his stomach, his tongue-- but his chest most of all. 

Perhaps it was the _goodness_ of a date that had upset Crowley. Dates were fun, innocent things. Aziraphale thought of four months ago, when they had been in that satanic nunnery turned paintball arena. When he had called Crowley _nice_ , a four letter word, and he had reacted so aggressively. Aziraphale never thought Crowley had truly felt the indignity he had shown, but the angel had been wrong before...

Aziraphale banished the thought. He could tell when Crowley was genuinely upset-- a 6000 year friendship grants that kind of connection, that kind of unspoken knowing-- and that was not now. It seemed more like a mask for something, but what? And _why?_

The silence, already so suffocating, was getting too much-- what should he do? _Say something, Aziraphale!_

_Perhaps a joke?_

“Ah--” Crowley jolted a little beside Aziraphale-- “Silly, that. Our outing being mistaken as… as a date. Funny how often it happens, hmm?” 

Crowley’s face twisted into a bit of a smiling grimace before replying, “...Nyeah, nice one,”

Neither of them seemed inclined to continue the conversation, so the rest of the car ride was spent in the discomforting quiet and the blanketing darkness of the night.

\-----

Settling in for the night was much the same as the car ride: muted and stilted, with a lining of drunkenness that made things seem all the more exaggerated. The cottage was brighter than the car though, but it didn’t make much of a difference as Crowley had trudged off to bed early with a grunt and Aziraphale, following loosely behind him to his own room, had no reason to keep the lamps10 on. 

They exchanged no words inside the cottage. Aziraphale’s head was already beginning to hurt.

A nice lie-down would probably do him some good. Not to sleep, of course, but sitting on a bed under heavy blankets with a book was an experience he missed. He was also stubbornly unwilling to sober up, and reading while drunk had always been amusing in the past. Perhaps that could cheer him up after that disaster of an ending to what had almost been a perfect evening out.

Only, most of the books he had brought were _romance_ books, and the one he was currently in the middle of was the famous romantic tragedy, _Romeo and Juliet_. Reading any sort of romance would only make Aziraphale think of Crowley, and that would lead to a nice perusal of the most heart-wrenchingly tender fantasies his heart could think up, and then, unfailingly, in the middle of one, he’d remember the state of things. He’d remember that Crowley didn’t feel the same way, and a thousand memories proving it would flash in front of his eyes-- at the forefront being, of course, _it’s not a date_. Hissed in the voice Aziraphale wanted to hear only good things from, happy laughs and sweet nothings and _I love you’s_.

Aziraphale would do anything for Crowley to hear that _I love you_. He would do anything for Crowley regardless, but getting to hear _I love you_ from those wondrously clever lips would be a nice bonus.

Aziraphale was currently very drunk and lying comfortably in his twin bed under a heavy tartan quilt. In his relaxed, warm, inebriated state, despite knowing exactly how it would end, he thought of romance. He thought and thought and thought, and his mind danced from vivid illusion to vivid illusion, and while he knew he would never have these things, he was drunk enough that forgetting the impossibility of it was easier. 

Aziraphale was very good at escapism. Crowley may have had the best imagination of the two of them, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t have any at all. 

He was in the middle of a particularly delightful daydream about baking, dancing, and kissing when he heard the creaking of floorboards and the shuffling of feet in the hallway. While Aziraphale would have already known the being outside his door to be Crowley simply due to the fact he and the demon were the only ones here, the irregular pattern of the footfalls was so distinctive to Crowley that even if there had been others, there would have been no doubt to the shuffler’s identity. It made him smile.

Aziraphale assumed Crowley was going downstairs for whatever reason. Instead, the pad of footsteps stopped right outside his door, ceasing all noise once more as though nothing had changed. Hmm. Crowley had always been a peculiar fellow, but not quite to this degree. Aziraphale would likely have found it eerie if he thought Crowley was capable of that.

About 3 minutes and 24 seconds passed by with nothing. Not the twist of a doorknob, not the squeak of a hinge, not one indication of movement. Just as Aziraphale had opened his mouth to say something-- or even just pointedly cough-- the creaks resumed, creating an audible path back in the direction they had come. Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

_What on Earth was that?_

Perhaps Crowley had come to tell him something, but had forgotten. Aziraphale knew the feeling; they were immortal beings that had lived before even the Beginning, and there was only so much space to keep memories inside themselves. That was a perfectly reasonable and perfectly probable explanation, but some part of Aziraphale hoped it was for a different reason. He could come up with more, certainly, speculate until the sun rose, but he would never truly know the reason until he asked.

So he would.

Tomorrow. 

Or, well, today, but later. 

* * *

> 6\.  If Crowley were less dense, as well as less distracted by his own fantasies of cotton-fluff hair and soft embraces and dances to crackling smooth jazz tunes from the 40’s that last _days_ , the lack of subtlety in the glistening of Aziraphale’s eyes and the fondness of his smile would have smacked him in the face. Alas. 
> 
> 7\.  “Share” as in Aziraphale would assume unofficial ownership over all of them, eat most of them, and Crowley would snatch some up while trying to be a mischievous nuisance. It was nothing but endearing to Aziraphale. Except for when the chips Crowley stole came right out of Aziraphale’s hand.
> 
> 8\.  All angels glowed when they reached a certain threshold of unadulterated delight. However, before the Great Heavenly War angels had no bodies to glow through, and after the war they had no catalysts for such happiness. Aziraphale was the only angel to have glowed in a corporation, and the one and only time he did was shortly after arriving home on a dreary night in 1941 with a lot on his mind.
> 
> 9\.  Coming back from a trip to Heaven, however short, always felt like coming back into a room you had spent lots of time in by yourself. While you were in there you hadn’t noticed, but leaving and coming back reacquainted you with the musty, dusty smell you had become used to.
> 
> 10\.  The cottage, taking note of the passage of time and Crowley’s fancy modern technologies, had kindly updated its hardware. Not by much, of course, as it was _Aziraphale’s_ cottage, but there were a great deal more outlets, switches, and electricity in general in the walls than before. 


End file.
